


In Time the Hour Will Fail to Chime

by winternacht



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Chair Bondage, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sensory Deprivation, vaguely implied Jon/Elias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winternacht/pseuds/winternacht
Summary: Peter is ready to give Jon his statement. Under certain conditions.





	In Time the Hour Will Fail to Chime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



> Title taken from the song Christendom by Paradise Lost.

Jon’s legs felt heavier with every step he took towards Elias’ office, now occupied by Peter Lukas. The air grew thicker, as if he were moving through fog. In many ways, it was the opposite of walking around the Institute under the Eye’s piercing gaze, which forced him to hurry along and allowed no lingering.

Everything seemed to have slowed down in his absence. Conversations were carried out in hushed tones, as if any noise might draw the attention of something lurking within the walls.

Or perhaps he was the only one affected by Elias’ absence in such a way. Indeed, Jon couldn’t help wondering why Elias had allowed Peter to take over the Institute in the first place. To spread his influence in the place like he belonged there, and when Jon knocked on the office door, his hand was balled into an angry fist for a reason he was afraid to consider more closely.

“Come in,” Peter said, cheerful as usual. It made the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stand on end. Still, he entered.

“You wanted to talk to me?” He approached the desk cautiously. When he’d fought with Elias, he’d marched up without any second thought. Slammed down his hands onto the solid wood, relishing the burn that kindled his anger, while Elias simply looked on with an amused expression, ready to derail his rage until Jon stumbled out of the office confused and flustered. Peter, meanwhile, felt like he was far away; if he wanted to, he could probably slip away even further.

“Yes. Please take a seat.”

Jon eyed the chair. A sturdy, wooden thing with vertical slats at the back, rather than the comfortable leather seat from before. One of the few things Peter had changed in the office. Like removing the tape recorder that was always within reach, along with deactivating the grandfather’s clock that stood to the right of the desk. Jon couldn’t help wondering if it too had yielded to the Lonely’s power.

He sat, letting the seconds tick by unheard. Peter’s friendly half-smile didn’t change.

“What do you want?” Jon finally asked sharply. At that, Peter raised his eyebrows, but the smile remained plastered on his face.

“To give a statement,” he replied automatically.

“Oh.” Despite himself, Jon leaned forward eagerly. “What-“

“Let me finish before you ask your questions, Archivist.” His smile grew wider, and Jon squirmed back. “I want to give you a statement, but under one condition. You need to figure out the right question to ask.”

Jon snorted. “And what is the right-“

“If you ask the wrong question,” Peter interrupted, and Jon fell silent, the compulsion tingling on his tongue, “there will be consequences.”

“What-“ Peter’s smile widened for a moment. “I mean, I would like to know what those consequences are.”

“You will find out soon enough,” Peter said simply.

“Fine,” Jon said. “But normally, statements are taken in the Archives. While a tape recorder is running,” he reminded Peter pointedly. The only place in the Institute that seemed to truly belong to the Eye, impervious to the Lonely’s creeping influence.

“Oh, I know,” Peter said. “But see, I prefer having this conversation in private. After all, the statement I want to give you today is one Elias has not managed to draw out of me. What do you say, Archivist?”

“Is that true?” he asked before Peter could stop him.

“It is,” Peter replied. His voice sounded a little strained, the smile faltered for a second.

Jon took a deep breath. “Then… fine.”

Peter relaxed a little in his chair. “Good, good. There’s just something I need to take care of first.”

He stood and walked past Jon, around his chair, followed by his gaze until Jon had to turn his head to the other side. That one moment was all it took. Within a flash, Peter had pulled back both of Jon’s arms, making him groan as the insides of his elbows ground against the sharp edge of the wood. Rough rope coiled around his wrists and bound them tight.

“Wait-“ Jon yelled. He tried to pull his hands free, tried to stand, but Peter tipped his chair back, and Jon’s stomach turned with the momentum, the sound of breaking bones already ringing in his ears, before he slammed against the wooden slates, a large knot digging into his back. Then Peter simply twisted his chair around and let it clatter back to a normal position, knocking the wind out of Jon’s lungs as he fell forward like a ragdoll, hissing at the pain in his arms.

Peter tilted his chin up. There was no trace of kindness left in his smile. “I told you, wrong questions have consequences.” He brushed his other hand against Jon’s forehead, and suddenly, the room vanished, Peter vanished, and all that was left was an impenetrable wall of milky gray. He couldn’t even see his own knees or torso. “Do try to be more careful next time.” His voice sounded like it was far away, even if all accounts, he had to still be right in front of him. Jon could still feel his hand, cold and calloused, on his skin.

“I never agreed to this,” Jon snarled, trying to speak over his racing pulse. “Let me go.”

“I’m afraid you have, Archivist.” The joviality had returned to Peter’s voice. “Ask the right question, and you’ll be free to walk away from this. After I’ve given my statement, of course.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Elias has been talking a lot about you, you know? I…” His voice trailed off and Jon tried to follow it, tried to lean forward as much as his restraints allowed. There was nothing.

“Peter!” he called out, unable to even hear his own voice. He pressed his face into his palm, his one anchor to the real world.

He didn’t know how much time passed in the eerie silence, a silence that seemed to muffle even the frantic beating of his heart in his ears, his panicked breath.

“Wrong question, Archivist,” Peter eventually said, making Jon jump. His voice sounded smooth and pleasant, but so quiet that Jon could barely hear it. But at least he could hear. “Why don’t you give it another go?”

Jon bit his tongue. He wanted to ask if Elias knew. If Elias had allowed this.

“Why- why did Elias let you take over the Institute?”

There was a low chuckle. “Common goals. Friendship, perhaps. That much, you could have guessed yourself.”

Peter took his hand away, and Jon sagged in his bonds. At least he thought he did. He couldn’t feel it anymore, the rough texture of the rope that certainly must have chaffed his wrists to bleeding. He dug his teeth into his lip, not feeling a thing, only releasing it when the taste of copper spread across his tongue. He wanted to call out again. But this time, he wouldn’t give Peter the satisfaction.

“That was the wrong question,” Jon muttered to himself, and Peter agreed.

“Is there a reason you chose the Lonely apart from family obligation?”

“Mere family obligation is not enough,” Peter began. “Year ago, when I first met Elias…” His voice had grown quiet and vanished. Silence reigned, again, trapping Jon in his thoughts and the thrumming emptiness in his mind, like white noise filling up his very being. Whatever Peter was saying, it wasn’t reaching the Eye. Or if it was, Jon could not partake in the feeling of knowledge pooling into his mind, welling up within him in response to his call.

Restlessness overtook him. His sense of equilibrium was all that clued him in to his own body’s shifting in the chair. For all he knew, Peter had been talking for minutes already. Maybe half an hour.

Finally, Peter’s voice broke through the silence again. “Enjoying this little exercise, Archivist?”

Jon glared in the direction he suspected Peter. It earned him a laugh. “Looks like Elias wasn’t lying about your talent. Too bad it seems to be wasted on you.”

“Shut up,” Jon spat. His own voice remained silent to him. He wished he knew if it sounded as small as he felt.

“Did you choose the sea yourself?”

“Yes and no.” Jon tried to soak up the words before Peter’s voice vanished again, tried to cling to the satisfaction of successful compulsion, no matter how banal the answer.

He could tell his body was shifting again, but this time, it had to be Peter’s doing. Tipped back the chair, most likely. Pulled his legs forward to the edge so he was half-lying on it. A cold fear gripped him.

“What are you doing?” he asked before he could stop himself. There was no answer. But there was something Peter let through in response. The noise of a zipper opening, accompanied by an odd feeling of relief. A telling feeling.

Frightened, Jon called out his name. He was vaguely aware of the heat that started coursing through him, giving a shape to his body where before had been simply nothing.

“Don’t-“

“Ask your question, Archivist.”

Jon had trouble finding his voice. He wondered if he was making pathetic little sounds, letting them spill over his lips unhindered.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, again, unable to come up with anything else in his panic.

 “I’ve already told you.”

“But why-“ His tongue and jaw stopped moving, and no breath seemed to pass to his lungs. Then he was released, and his body shook with coughs. Or maybe simply with fear.

He knew he shouldn’t ask. He knew it would be the wrong choice. But it was all he could think of. “What is the right question?”

Silence. Silence and nothing. Jon didn’t know how long it lasted.

He started babbling. Asking question after question. Or maybe all that came out of his mouth was only sobbing, lost in the effort to lace his words with compulsion. Maybe it was for the better, not being able to ask. Maybe-

Awareness of his surroundings slammed into him so suddenly that he let out a shaky groan. An overload of sensations took hold of his mind - the stinging light above him, the noise of his own labored breathing, the cold air against his uncovered abdomen and thighs, the pinpricks of numbness in his arms. They all mingled with the pain of being stretched open around the fingers of Peter’s right hand, the pleasure of him circling his prostate, the eager throbbing of Jon’s own exposed cock.

His lip pulsed painfully beneath his teeth as he tried to choke back a moan, and all that left his mouth was a small whimper. He wanted to return to the unfeeling emptiness. A part of him wanted to beg. But Peter simply kept moving his fingers inside him, just slick enough to make the friction bearable.

Sweat started dripping down Jon’s temples. “Don’t,” he whimpered, until he could no longer vocalize the word, until all he could do was to moan helplessly, balanced precariously on the edge of the seat, unable to move, unable to pull up the leg Peter wasn’t holding tight in his grip to his body to try to kick him properly instead of just fruitlessly knocking his knee against his side with barely any momentum. Peter merely laughed and continued working his fingers until Jon’s cock twitched against his abdomen, painting it with slick lines of precome.

Then Peter’s movements stilled, and Jon made a small noise he couldn’t interpret himself. Whether it was relief or frustration, and his chest constricted miserably at the thought.

“Time for your next question.” Peter’s tone tried to be airy, but there was a tightness to it. Jon found some measure of bitter satisfaction in the fact that Peter didn’t seem to enjoy his questions as much as Elias did after all. Still, he didn’t dare continue.

“I-I want to stop,” Jon admitted.

Peter smiled at him in an almost pitying way. “That’s not how this works, Archivist. But tell you what, why don’t you ask me nicely if we can stop?”

Jon gritted his teeth. “Are you doing this to sabotage Elias’ ritual?”

Peter’s laugh rang in his ears. “On the contrary, Archivist.” He pulled his fingers out of Jon. “Elias has asked me to help you experience the Lonely. Though I suppose he didn’t specify how. He’s never been one for proper guidance, has he?”

He released Jon’s leg briefly to pull himself out of his slacks, cock hard and flushed. Jon froze. “Why are you keeping him from-“ The words scattered when Peter lined himself up and pushed inside, a merciless thrust, until his was buried inside Jon to the hilt. The pain left him breathless, voiceless, until Peter started to move. A series of sharp, deep thrusts that ended with his hips slamming against Jon, forcing high-pitched noises out of him. Pained whimpers, when he moved at an angle that avoided his prostate, too rough to be enjoyable. Desperate moans, when he tilted his hips to slam pleasure into Jon. It was an unsteady rhythm, an unpredictable staccato of pain, discomfort, and ecstasy that left his body no choice but to respond.

Peter nearly pulled out, panting quietly, leaving just the head of his cock inside Jon, caught just at his rim, and gathered some of the fluid Jon had spilled on himself. Jon braced himself for more, but Peter simply stood still, taking himself in hand, as if he was trying to realign himself.

Then his fist started to move, slicked with Jon’s precome, along his exposed length - languid movements accompanied by quiet groans. Jon’s body twitched around the tip, thick and hard, clenching down every time Peter’s hand pushed against him, only for it to draw back again, not even far enough to completely break the contact between them. Restless, Jon tried to shift his hips, tried to draw Peter in deeper again, to get some stimulation that would help him over the edge so this could finally end, but Peter’s grip was unforgiving. All Jon could do was let Peter use him as he jerked himself faster and faster, as he visibly, cruelly relished Jon’s feeble attempts to feel more than just the shallow stretch that kept him open for Peter.

Peter came inside him with a groan, and Jon let his head fall back against the chair. Tears stung in his eyes and rolled hot over his temples, soaking into his hairline.

Peter didn’t pull out yet, pushing his softening cock deeper into Jon’s overstimulated body, still begging for release as Peter loomed over him. The hand that had been holding Jon’s leg slid up his thigh now, his side, slowly, gently almost. It paused on his cheek, thumb wiping across wet lashes.

“I’m waiting, Archivist,” he said, stroking Jon’s cheek.

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t figure out what to ask. Peter ran his thumb across his lips, letting him taste his tears. Salty like the sea that stretched beyond the horizon, like this everlasting moment Peter had trapped him in.

Peter’s hand closed around his cock, his grip hardly tight enough to bring any satisfaction as he moved his hand along it, and Jon wondered just how long he would continue. If he would get him off and let him off the hook, or simply keep going.

His mind was drifting, trying to attach itself to something else, something familiar, but there was nothing familiar in this place. Neither the gaze of the Eye nor Elias's. Nor the comforting ticking of the clock.

Jon opened his eyes and raised his head. “Why did you stop the clock?”

Peter’s hand stilled. “Ah.” Jon’s question had cut through the thick air in the office, letting something else through, something that had Jon responding in body and mind. Muscles tense with the anticipation of being answered, his hips bucking up into Peter’s unmoving hand, Jon finally tipped over the edge in the ecstasy of being _seen_ again, spilling come over his own body.

He was still breathing heavily when a tape recorder clicked on, somewhere in the room, and Peter turned his head sharply. Then he laughed. Pulled out of Jon and tucked himself back into his trousers. Set the chair down again with a clatter, Jon’s body rocking forward, the ropes biting sharply into his wrists. Jon could barely feel the pain anymore.

“The Lonely has always had a strange relationship with time. I hadn’t fully given myself to its embrace yet when I got a taste of it myself.”

His voice was almost soothing. Filling the chasm Peter had torn open inside Jon with the knowledge Jon now drew from him. It was almost enough to distract him from the feeling of Peter’s hand in his hair, gentle in a way that made him feel ice cold.

“There is a room in Moorland House, on the third floor.” Peter smoothed Jon’s shirt over his sullied abdomen, making him cringe against the back of the chair, but the knot at his back forced his chest into an arc. “Every Lukas has been in there, just once. And alone. Except for Nathaniel, I suppose. It’s his duty to retrieve the remains of those who fail.”

More questions burned on Jon’s tongue. He opened his mouth to interrupt, but Peter shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and Jon remained silent.

“When I turned twenty-five, it was time for me to take the test. I was cocky and foolish back then. Clueless. In dire need of learning some respect.” Peter’s fingers brushed against Jon’s cheek before tightening around his chin. Forcing eye contact, as if Jon would have ever looked away. “And when the door closed behind me, nobody knew that I had managed to smuggle in my grandfather’s pocket watch.”

* * *

Jon lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He wondered if the Eye was looking back, greedily searching for signs of Peter Lukas on his skin and in his mind. 

He wondered if he would dream of the small, windowless room Peter had described to him. He wondered if that had been Peter’s plan all along – to trap him there with him in the dark, counting the seconds as they ticked by, until shaking hands wound up the watch again, and again, and again.


End file.
